Page 21 of Parentmoon

“Got something for one of them?” His tone roughens. His question unwarranted. His head lifts higher, gaze direct. “You want one of them?”

“Are you crazy?” Artie is a heavy-set man with a day’s growth that isn’t the attractive kind but rather stubbly in patches. He’s boisterous and obnoxious. Ira is only slightly more pulled together, but sad and dejected looking, quiet and reserved while awkward to talk to. I don’t understand how Dallas could think I’m attracted to either man, let alone flirting with them.

He almost sounds . . . jealous. Which is ridiculous. Besides, he’s the one who hardly spoke to me during dinner.

“I might be.” He rubs a palm over his barely-there hair. “You drive me insane.”

“Me?” My voice cracks.

“Parading around in your short shorts and that bathing suit showing off all your curves. Don’t even get me started on that dress.” He waves his hand up and down, emphasizing my attire. “Pink isn’t a fucking color on you. It’s an attitude.”

“What does that mean?” I straighten, not certain if I should be insulted or flattered.

“It means you’re hot and confident and”—He drags his hand down his face—“and I want to strip you bare of that thing.”

Holy . . . what?!

Pink is hardly a bold color. It’s feminine, loving and kind. Nurturing even, but confident? I didn’t see it.

Quickly, I deflect. “I will not have a fling with you.” The words burst forward while all my blood rushes to one place. A spot throbbing and hot and begging me to retract every single syllable of what I just said.

“Why not?” The exasperation in his tone matches the stark surprise in his eyes. Or is that something else in those pretty blues?

“I’m too old.” The excuse is weak.

“You are not.”

I tap my fist over my chest. “I don’t think my heart is prepared for . . .” For what?

I could love a man like Dallas Cole. A man who looks at me with an intensity I’ve never experienced. A man who watches me like he’s memorizing every movement. A man flirting with me to give into something I shouldn’t desire from him. It’s dangerous for my overly sensitive, highly emotional, and extremely lonely heart.

“Who says anything about hearts? It’s other parts I want to put together between us.”

His response should have been the reinforcement to all the reasons I shouldn’t be with him, but still I ask, “Why?” Has there ever been a simpler question that is so complex?

“I told you. Hot. Confident. Curvy.” He pauses and steps closer to me, pushing back my hair on either side of my head and holding me in a way I can’t not look at him.

“Fucking beautiful.” His gaze zeroes in on my mouth.

“I am—”

One thick finger of his presses against my lips, preventing me from denying his compliment. His index finger lingers.

Old habits of suspicion take over. I mumble against the barrier at my lips. “Where were you earlier?”

His brows pinch, contemplating. I brace for a lie. Then he explains, “I needed to discuss something with Rosita.”

My eyes narrow. The squinting glare confesses I don’t believe him. Years of fabrications meant as distraction, as passive avoidance, are hard to dismiss in my current position when those old lies have nothing to do with Dallas.

His thumb moves, tracing over my lips. The bow of the upper one. The corner where he kissed me this morning. Along the puffy swell of the lower curve. Then he rounds the other side, glides up the bow once more and stops at the divot creasing my top lip.

“I find I want you all to myself, darlin’.” He swallows hard, as if preparing to confess his greatest fear or the biggest fib. “I spoke to Rosita about a private dinner. Tomorrow night. Just you and me.”

The earlier warning bells peter off in my head, disappearing into a distant fog, and I’m left stunned by the vulnerability in his eyes, and a rawness in the plans he made.

His thumb against my lip retreats, dragging from that dip of the top lip to the puff of the bottom one, tugging it downward. His gaze doesn’t leave my mouth.

My heart hammers. Afraid he’s lying. Afraid he’s telling the truth. Afraid he’ll release me too soon. I stand on the edge of a weak cliff. In a last-second-before-I-slip decision, I open my mouth and catch the pad of his thumb with my teeth.